


A Wish Your Heart Makes

by rufeepeach



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 17:11:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15029306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: Rumpelstiltskin is dreaming. So is Belle. And apparently, through an odd twist of fairy dust and Midwinter magic, both are lucid, occupying the same dreamworld in which anything is possible - maybe even a little honesty, and a little love.Set between Belle leaving the castle and her getting kidnapped.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crysania](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crysania/gifts).



> So this was originally written for the RSS 2017, in which my giftee was the amazing Crysania - however, some really truly awful real life stuff prevented me from ever finishing it, and I had to drop out. Now, almost six months to the day since the original deadline, here it finally is! 
> 
> Hope it was worth the wait!

“If looks could kill…” Rumpelstiltskin drawled, and crouched down so he was eye-level with the captured fairy caught behind the glass. He snickered. “Well, you’d still be out of luck, wouldn’t you dearie?”

The fairy’s brow beetled, her glare only strengthening. She muttered something in a language Rumpelstiltskin recognised, but did not understand.

“Didn’t catch that, insect,” he said, straightening. “I’m afraid you’ll have to repeat it in a civilised tongue.”

“Go to hell, Dark One!” she snapped. He tutted, clicking his tongue.

“And here I thought fairies were all so sweet and sparkly,” he sneered. The image of his mother, shimmering in the dark of the forest, not glaring but grinning with a mouth full of needles, slipped through his mind. No one knew. He’d even erased his former maid’s memory of that little incident, so as to preserve the terrible secret he now carried.

He’d hated gnats even before that encounter. Now, despite his desire to get the repugnant little thing out of his castle, he couldn’t resist a chance to gloat.

“One shaft of moonlight on this glass, and you’ll see how _sweet_ I can be,” the fairy threatened. On that, alas, she was correct. Midwinter’s night, the full moon at its zenith, and this particular fairy was a creature of snow and silver. She was at the height of her power tonight, and his gamble had paid off: she had gotten cocky, drunk on her own magic, and flown into his trap without checking for snares.

There was, however, always a catch: the power conferred by tonight’s bright moonlight, should the light fall directly upon her skin, would be strong enough to cancel out the effect of the iron binding the glass, and allow her to break free. He had no doubt he could fend off whatever petty power she had, but it would make a mess of his tower, and in the absence of a maid he would have to tidy it himself.

“Then I’d better kill you quickly, hadn’t I?” he twittered. “Now, where is that fly swatter…?”

It was an empty threat. While provoking the Ruel Ghorm was always a worthwhile pursuit, with the insect dead her dust would lose its potency.

But she didn’t need to know that.

Gratifyingly, he saw her grey eyes widen with fear, her silvery skin growing paler. She attempted to cover the chill down her spine with yet more bluster and bravado. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Wouldn’t I?” he snarled. “You seem to have forgotten, dearie, how _dark_ the Dark One can be. Your kind whisper tales of my terrible deeds to children in their beds, do you not? Think of the terror when I hang your broken body from the highest tower… your dangling corpse would make _such_ a pretty picture.”

She swallowed hard. He saw her wings flutter.

“You’re a monster, Rumpelstiltskin,” she hissed. He heard the tremor in her voice, and the sick sense of victory almost overpowered the low, rippling memory that slipped beneath.

_“You’re not a monster…”_

If that were true, then Belle would be here. Monsters had no mercy, no kindness, and certainly no heart for true love. What little remained belonged to his son; there was no room for cornflower-blue eyes and rose-scented dreaming. Her opinions were founded on innocence and empty wishing, as hollow and meaningless as the space beneath his ribs.

He was haunted only by the absence of his tea in the morning, and the clutter and filth that returned without her duster and quick hands.

“They’re already looking for me,” she continued. “Kill me and you’ll have an army of fairies ready to rip this castle apart.”

“Isn’t vengeance a little… dark?” he queried, one eyebrow arched. “Can your little hearts hold room for more than one feeling at a time?”

“Go to hell,” she muttered again, stamping her little foot. He snorted.

“Already there, dearie,” he replied, under his breath. She didn’t hear him. Belle would have, and then she would have contradicted him, her bright mind clouded by her foolish heart. But if he were wrong, then she would still be here, wouldn’t she?

If this weren’t hell, then he wouldn’t be all alone with his curse.

“What do you want from me?” the fairy demanded. “You’re always after a deal, aren’t you? You can’t have gone to the effort of capturing me only to kill me and hope someone will notice.”

He cocked his head to one side, and regarded her for a long moment. At last, she was thinking instead of shouting. “Well,” he said, as if he’d only just thought of it, as if it weren’t the point of this whole endeavour, “I suppose a jar of your dust – blessed and warded against interference, of course – could put a damper on my desire to see you bleed.”

“My dust?” she asked. He blinked, but didn’t elaborate. “What use does the Dark One have for that?”

“My business is my business,” he sneered. “What matters is whether you value your dust or your life.”

“Fairy magic can only be used by fairies, Saviours, and those who are pure of heart” she said. “It would be useless to you.”

Indeed, that was rather the point: he had to know whether he had inherited his mother’s gift. He was no Saviour, and his heart was dark as the midwinter sky, so that left only, potentially, fairy blood to activate the spell. Attempting to use the dust would tell him, once and for all, if whatever his mother was or whatever she had become touched him too.

When he thought upon all the strange, supernatural things that had happened in his meagre, ordinary life – Neverland, his father, the Seer, Zoso, Bae’s banishment – his mother’s identity fit perfectly into the pattern. It was clear now that there had been something wrong with him well before he had stabbed the demon in the woods, and become the creature the trapped fairy before him loathed so deeply.

The Dark One was a known quantity, after three hundred years sharing a body with its dark power and darker soul. Fairies were something else altogether. If something was likely to rise out of the mist of his past and his heritage to wreak havoc and destruction, he needed to know now.

He said none of this to the fairy. Instead, he spread his lips into a menacing smile, and cocked his head to one side. “Well then,” he said, “what’s the harm in sharing?”

She bared her teeth. “Dark purpose and intent cannot be served with light magic,” she warned. “It will distort and repel any evil it encounters.”

“Then I’m prepared to be as thoroughly _repulsed_ by the dust as I am by its creator,” he said, his patience growing thin. “Do we have a deal?”

“You’ll release me?” she checked, her eyes darting out the window at the snowy hills. A heavy cloud hid the moon. She was weighing the odds of the moonlight saving her before she had to agree to his terms.

“Back into the wild,” he agreed, “back to your coven and your sugar plums.”

She ignored him. For a moment, he thought he saw a swirl of blue skirts and a foot stamped in irritation.

“Do we have a deal?” he pressed.

She rolled her eyes. Without a word, the fairy shook her tiny body all over, fluttering her wings in the glass cage. The dust swirled and spilled from her skirts, her hair, her wings, even from the tips of her eyelashes. By the time she was finished, the bell jar that contained her was half-filled with fairy dust, glimmering a deep, rich blue dotted with silver, winking stars.

“Lift the jar, and the dust is yours, Rumpelstiltskin,” she said through gritted teeth.

They both knew she would regain her power the moment the iron-bound glass was lifted. They also both knew he could overpower any attempt she made to harm him, but that before he could defeat her she would destroy the dust, and they would be back to square one.

When he lifted the jar, she would fly away, and he would let her. It was the only way they would be free of one another.

Beautiful things always did that, he mused: the moment they were free, they flew for the horizon, never to return.

The fairy’s ethereal grace was a thousand miles from Belle’s soft, flushed, bookish prettiness, but beauty was beauty nonetheless. It was a rare thing, in the cultivated ugliness of Rumpelstiltskin’s castle. Even the tapestries and ornaments had lost their shine of late.

He lifted the jar, and waved a hand to transport the dust safely into a container. By the time he looked back, the fairy was a speck in the sky, flying as fast as her wings could carry her.


	2. Chapter 2

Tavern beds were a universal constant, Belle thought, looking with distaste at the filthy straw mattress she’d hired for the night. She had never hired a bed above a tavern that didn’t feel like sleeping in a stable. Bedding down with Philippe would almost be preferable – at least she knew he was clean, since she’d groomed him herself.

It wasn’t the worst bed she’d ever slept in. That dubious honour still belonged to Rumpelstiltskin’s dungeon palette, which was barely more than a moth-eaten blanket on the stone floor. Not that she’d spent more than two or three nights there, before she’d been relocated to a suite in the guest wing.

For a moment, she thought longingly about that second bed, the soft mattress and feather down duvet, the piles of pillows and silky sheets. She still thought of that bed as hers, that castle as her home, even despite her banishment. She imagined sliding into that soft, downy cocoon, and falling asleep to the blissful silence and cool dark that slipped over the castle at night.

For a moment, the homesickness was overwhelming.

She swallowed hard, shaking it off. She liked that the tavern was still raucous and full of music downstairs, and that the firelight would continue through the night. It was adventurous, wasn’t it? And anyway, a bed was a bed, the door was locked, and she could leave at first night.

Belle looked at the filthy mattress and grimaced. Hopefully tomorrow night would bring a proper inn, and cleaner bed sheets.

She unbuckled her belt, and placed it carefully within reach, where she could grab the dagger from the bed if needs be. She folded her doublet, breeches, boots and undershirts at the end of the bed.

With a small smile, Belle reached into her small bag for the soft white silk of her shift, the shift she’d been wearing when she left the castle, and pulled it over her head. The silk whispered over her skin, familiar and soft, a luxury after a day in her stiff leathers.

It was the only thing she owned now that was loose enough to sleep in. She’d spent every coin she had on the garb of an adventurer – but while her dresses had been sold, there was still room in her saddlebags, just barely, for a princess’ nightdress.

Belle shivered, suddenly keenly aware of the snow banked outside and the freezing midwinter air. Her leathers weren’t comfortable but at least they were warm. All of a sudden, the bed seemed more inviting than it had a moment ago.

The coals in the grate were glowing, still warm, and for all it was dirty the bed did come stacked with rough wool blankets. Belle left her hair loose, an extra warm weight on her shoulders, and pulled the covers over her head, curling her knees to her chest. She fervently hoped her body heat would warm the bed sooner rather than later.

Another shiver shook her spine. She bit her lip to keep her teeth from chattering.

She shifted her gaze out of the murky window, trying to focus on the sky and the stars, to let it take her away. As if hearing her request, a cloud moved and revealed the full moon, allowing a shaft of pale, gleaming light to spill over the room. Belle gazed up at it, and let it colour the world, turning the muddied floor and ruddy firelight to glittering, wintry silver. Even the tavern room was suddenly beautiful in the moonlight.

“Midwinter’s night,” Belle murmured. “I had almost forgotten.”

With the realisation came another wave of homesickness, this time for her family home, for the yuletide celebrations that would be in full swing by now. Her father would be red-faced and swaying, deep in his cups, watching benevolently over the revelling courtiers and townspeople. Mulled wine and cider would be flowing freely, the halls filled with music and light well into the long, dark night.

She closed her eyes, and tried not to let the tears fall. She wasn’t some small, scared little girl, crying for her mother on a dark night. She was an adventurer, she reminded herself, a wanderer, a traveller, no longer bound by tradition or family or anything else, free to see the world as she’d always dreamed.

Never mind that she’d walked away from her family and slammed the door behind her, knowing she could never go back. Never mind that she was banished from the place that had become her home, the man she loved lost to her in his hatred and fear.

Her eyes closed, exhaustion washing over her like a tidal wave. She could almost see him now, she thought sleepily, standing at his window, hands crossed at the small of his back. Perhaps he was staring at the same pale moon. Perhaps he was even thinking of her.

Yes, she could see him, glaring out at the world from his high tower, as if he could make it cower and quake by sheer force of will. As if, if he tried hard enough, he could make it fear him as greatly as he feared it.

A wave of anger swept over her. Somehow, the orderliness of it, the neat lines of his bottles and books, his papers and parchment scrolls evenly stacked on his broad table, offended her. When he threw her out, his castle had been wrecked, the floor a mess of shattered porcelain and glass as if he’d smashed his own home in a rage. It had helped, somewhat, to see that however controlled and cruel his face, he was as ruined as she was inside.

Maybe the real workshop was still as broken as the dining room had been. It was her own mind creating this image, she reminded herself, not reality. It was built on memory, and she remembered it clean. She herself had cleaned it, after all.

The workshop was always dark, as it was now. He rarely bothered to light it at night. Belle took a deep breath; she could feel the stone beneath her feet, if she tried hard enough. The room was gloomy, parts of it hidden from view, but he was illuminated in that same moonlight.

He cut a fine figure, her Rumpelstiltskin, in his waistcoat and high collar, his perfectly fitted leather breaches and…

Belle frowned: why, in her imagination, was Rumpelstiltskin _barefoot_?

“I’ve never seen his feet,” Belle murmured to herself. To her surprise, Rumpelstiltskin seemed to hear her, for he spun in place and stared at her. His pupils were blown wide in his odd opaque eyes, one catching the light from the window, his scales glittering although the other half of his face was still shrouded in shadow. He would be almost frightening, if he didn’t look stunned.

“Rumpelstiltskin?” she tried, taking a step forward. Perhaps this was one of _those_ dreams, she thought, the ones where she returned and he listened, where the world was set to rights. She had longed so deeply, in her early travels, for his cruelty to lift and his heart to bloom, like springtime in the snowbound forest. She had imagined him waiting past every bend in the road, lounging against a tree or poised in the centre of the path, waiting for her with a mouth full of apologies and promises. She had dreamed that he would return to her, and finally give voice and action to the love she knew he felt.

This lovely dream would not last long. It would be a shame to waste it tarrying on on such a small detail as his _feet_.

He swallowed hard; his throat bobbed. He took another step forward, allowing the light to illuminate his whole face. She watched as he slid his customary mask over his features, hiding his clear astonishment behind cool, annoyed indifference. Not one of those dreams, then, after all. This was of the other kind, the kind where he threw her out again. She braced herself for the nightmare to commence. It usually started with a flick of his wrist and a trill of mocking laughter.

“Well, isn’t that a surprise,” he murmured to himself. She heard the trill in his voice, curiosity attempting to hide a sharp edge of dismay. “The little beast was wrong after all.”

“Excuse me!” Belle cried, shocked into response by such a casual insult. In her nightmares he taunted, accused, screamed and raged, but he never _insulted_ her. “I’m not much smaller than you, and if anyone is a beast here, it’s-“

“Not you,” Rumpelstiltskin sneered, cutting her off and brushing her aside as if she were little more than an insect. He looked away, perturbed. Belle struggled to catch her bearings. Nothing about this dream was happening the way it usually would. Had her mind finally snapped? Could she no longer even follow such a familiar script?

“Why are you barefoot?” she asked, the first question out of her mouth.

“Do you customarily sleep with your shoes on?” Rumpelstiltskin asked, testily. He wasn’t looking at her, instead rifling through his papers, his back turned.

“But you’re not asleep,” Belle replied, caught on that ridiculous detail, on his vulnerable, oh-so-human toes. She couldn’t stop staring, incredulous. “ _I_ am. I’ve never even seen your feet, so why would my subconscious invent them? For all I know your real toes are webbed!”

“I can assure you my toes are not webbed,” he snapped. He was still refusing to look at her, although his busy hands had ceased their frantic searching. “And I am asleep, as are you. One cannot dream while wide awake.”

“Even when I’m dreaming you’re still the same condescending bastard,” Belle muttered.

“We’ll be rid of one another soon enough,” he promised, and as ridiculous as it was, Belle felt her heart crack and break all over again. Apparently she couldn’t even dream him kind and loving anymore. Even in her own mind, she knew he couldn’t stand the sight of her. “I just have to find it…”

She bristled, forcing indignation to cover her misery. “You know, if I have to dream about you, I preferred the you I dreamed three nights ago. _He_ begged me to return to him, and _kissed_ me. I’d like that version back, please.”

Rumpelstiltskin spun to face her. His eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, but Belle caught it. He was staring at her, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

“But I see I’m stuck with the true-to-life version tonight,” she continued, barrelling on, her throat heavy with disappointment. She felt more herself in this dream than she usually did, everything felt so real. That wasn’t fair – dreams weren’t meant to feel like reality, they were meant to be an escape from it. But, if she was forced to go through with this, maybe it was time to get a few things off her chest, even if it was only to a figment of her imagination. “Lucky me.”

“You… dreamed about me three nights ago?” Rumpelstiltskin asked, his voice halting, tentative, so different from his usual high drama and confidence. It caught her off guard.

“You’re my subconscious,” she said, a terrible suspicion taking root even as she said it. “You tell me.”

He stepped closer. “What did I say in this dream?” he asked.

“You must already know,” she pressed, a shiver running down her spine. This was very odd, something was very wrong here. She felt herself responding to his presence, to the sudden almost predatory gleam in his eyes and the way he crept closer on those soft feet. She hadn’t felt like he was close to her in so very long, it was hard not to lean closer herself. She stood her ground. “You were there.”

“Remind me.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes were narrowed, and for a second he looked almost calculating. He never looked like that in her dreams. He was never barefoot; he never caught her off-guard, or looked surprised. He never plotted. In her dreams of him, Belle knew where she stood.

She looked at his toes.

“You’re not a dream,” she surmised. She looked up at him. “You’re really here, aren’t you? Or… or I’m there?” The calculating look vanished, and he stood upright, rubbing his thumb and forefinger nervously together as he watched her figure out his ruse. Anger welled in her: this was the real Rumpelstiltskin, then, and she was stuck here with him, with the real him, the one who was cruel and awful and had thrown her to the wolves out of sheer, bloody cowardice. The one she loved, and missed, and who didn’t seem to have missed her at all. “Where are we? What happened? What the hell is going on?”

“You are wherever you fell asleep,” he said, “Your father’s castle, I would presume. I am in my chair in my workshop. We are both dreaming, but you needn’t worry. I’ll reverse the effect soon enough, if you’ll stop bleating and let me think.”

“How can we be dreaming the same dream?” she asked, ignoring his dismissive comment. If she was stuck with him, then she wasn’t going to make it easy. He hadn’t made anything easy for her, after all.

She didn’t bother to correct him as to her whereabouts, didn’t tell him about the dirty, stinking tavern room or her somewhat underwhelming pursuit of adventure. Let him think she ran home to her father and a miserable marriage to Sir Gaston. Let him think she had forgotten him, and returned to safety and comfort. He’d forfeited his right to know her when he threw her out.

Rumpelstiltskin rubbed two fingers together, and Belle watched as a trickle of silvery dust fell from them. “Fairy dust,” he told her. “An experiment of sorts. Welcome to the land of dreams.”

He spread his arms, and bowed low, mocking her. It stung; she rolled her eyes.

Still, it was with a glimmer of reluctant excitement that Belle looked at her surroundings with fresh eyes. Sadly, she saw little out of the ordinary. She took a step forward; the ground was still cool and firm beneath her feet. She ran her fingers along the bookshelves, tracing lines in the dust that had collected in her absence. Even the book titles were the same as she remembered. “It looks just like your workshop,” she noted, disappointed again.

“You would prefer a more exotic setting?” he sneered “Agrabah? The forests of Exandria? Or perhaps you would hope to find yourself somewhere more _revealing_ of my little secrets – the hovel where I grew up, perhaps?”

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Belle snapped. “Dreams just aren’t usually this prosaic is all.” She rolled her eyes. “Gods, it’s as if no one ever tried to know you before. It’s not as if I can stab you in your dreams, Rumple. Get over yourself.”

There was a long pause, and she knew she had wrong-footed him with her casual dismissal. Good, she thought, let him see what it’s like. He’d done it to her often enough.

A moment later, he rallied. “I imagine we arrived here because this was where I scattered the dust, before I fell asleep,” he said. She thought he sounded a little chastened.

“Then why isn’t it just you here?” she asked. “The last time we spoke, you didn’t ever want to see me again. You’re desperate to be rid of me even now. Why drag me here when you don’t even want me?”

“I imagine you’re the fairy’s idea of a little joke,” Rumpelstiltskin replied. Belle could almost taste the bitterness in his voice. “She warned me that fairy magic cannot be used for dark purposes. You’re her idea of a failsafe.”

“Because you couldn’t do anything evil or malicious with me present?” Belle scoffed. “We both know that’s not true.”

“Well what else would account for it?” She thought he sounded a little hurt, but even he had to know he had no right to. He’d taken delight in regaling her with his stories of murder and mayhem, once upon a time. Their brief courtship hadn’t hidden what he was truly capable of. He wasn’t a monster, she had been right about that, but she’d known even then that fear could drive even the best of men to do terrible things. She had been right about that, too, in the end.

He was afraid now. She could see it in the way he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, like he did when he was spinning. He was afraid of what she might see, or perhaps what he might accidentally show her.

“That I was right,” she answered. “Light magic, fairy magic, is powered by one thing. That thing drew us together, and broke us apart.”

“And what would that be?” he asked, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “Glitter? Children’s wishes upon stars? Blind bloody optimism?”

“I was right,” she said, again. A small smile, victorious and not entirely kind, came to her lips. She had been right, even if it was too late, even if it didn’t matter anymore, even if he didn’t care. She knew it in her bones, like she knew her mother’s voice, and her own name, and Rumpelstiltskin. “It broke your curse, and now you’ve gone and doused yourself in it. You want to know why I’m here?” She stepped closer to him, and closer still, until they were almost touching and she could stare into his eyes. She enjoyed the little quiver in his jaw, how he held his breath and stared right back. He was afraid of her, and rightly so.

He swallowed, hard, and she watched the muscles in his throat shift. She fancied she could see his selfish, fearful heart thrum beneath his scales.

“I’m here, Rumpelstiltskin,” she said, soft yet sharp as nails, “Because I, and that dust, and the fairy that made it, all know something you refuse to admit.”

“And what would that be?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Her heart broke; her victory evaporated. He looked… hopeful. Ragged, tortured, miserable, and still hopeful.

She leaned up toward him, unsure if she intended to kiss him or slash his throat. Her voice came out conflicted, angry yet hopeful, too. She hated that she still hoped.

“That true love will always find its way home,” she said. “Nothing can break it apart. Not even your cruelty, or your fear. Not even the darkness in your soul.”

He stared at her, too close for comfort, and for a moment Belle couldn’t breathe. She was lost, all over again, in the warmth of his body radiating through her, and those wide opaque eyes staring at her as if she were astonishing and miraculous. For a beautiful moment, she almost thought he would kiss her.

Then, the moment passed, and he remained stunned and motionless. Belle rocked back on her heels, her feet returning to the cool floor.

She turned from him in disgust. Even now, with no consequences, no danger, their physical bodies hundreds of miles apart, he was too scared to touch her.

“I hope you’re right,” he murmured. His voice was low, as low as she’d ever heard it, free from trilling and dancing. He sounded soft, human, broken.

“I know I am,” she said. It was her turn to keep her back to him, to refuse to look him in the eye. It hurt too much, to be right. If true love could be destroyed, then the bond between them could break and she could be free, someday. Free to love again, to love someone who could love her back with his whole heart. Free from the pain of loving Rumpelstiltskin, and of being the only person who could, even if he couldn’t let her.

“Your room is downstairs,” he said, softly. “You can rest there, until the spell ends and we wake up.”

Belle nodded, a lump forming in her throat. He might love her, but he clearly didn’t want her. She didn’t know why she’d been foolish enough to hope otherwise. He was a coward and a liar, but he’d never lied about that.

She strode quickly to the door, suddenly desperate to leave this claustrophobic little room and gain some breathing space. She pulled the door open – and caught herself, just in time.

Her leg swung outward as she stumbled back, and found nothing beneath it but dark, empty, moonlit air.

Her balance failed her, her heart hammering in shock, as she realised she was less than a foot from miles of nothingness. A hand caught the back of her elbow, steadying her. “Don’t fall,” he muttered, and she didn’t know if she was really meant to hear it.

“I guess my room is out,” she gasped, laughing a little due to sheer adrenaline. She felt his breath against the top of her head, as he murmured in agreement.

“I used only a small amount of dust,” he said. “It seems it conjured only this room.”

“What would happen if I fell?” she asked, hating how afraid she felt of exactly that. She had almost fallen from the top of the tallest tower of her father’s castle once, when she was eight years old and tripped on her skirts. Her father had threatened to throw her from the top if she ever played in there again. She had been petrified of heights ever since.

At least if one fell from the tower one knew what waited at the bottom. She looked down, down, down, and saw only blackness. There was nothing at the bottom of that chasm: just miles and miles of dark, empty nothing.

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled her back inside, and kicked the door closed again behind them.

She had ended up pressed against him, her back to his warm, firm chest. His hands were still clutching her elbows, and for a moment she wished he would never let go. They had never been pressed this close before, and she was weak, and foolish, and too soft for her own good: it felt wonderful, like coming home.

“Rumple?” she said, after a moment. He came to his senses, and released her quickly, pushing her away as if she had burned him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, turning away from her even as she tried to face him.

She didn’t know what he meant by that.

“Well,” she said, with a shaky, bitter little laugh. She ran her trembling hands through her hair, trying to steady herself without the firm weight of his hands on her arms. “I guess you can’t send me away this time.”

He made a noncommittal noise.

“Do you want me to be silent, then?” she challenged, striding up to him. He had caught her and pulled her back from the edge, she reminded herself. He hoped she was right, that true love couldn’t be destroyed. If he couldn’t push her away this time, maybe this was an opportunity in disguise.

“Do what you will, dearie,” he said, striding toward his table and waving dismissive fingers at her over his shoulder.

“Fine.” She barged past him, and plonked herself in front of him on his desk, sitting firmly on top of his notes. “Then we’re going to talk.”

He sighed, and looked around her. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he insisted. “And you’re sat on my things.”

“You saved me, just then!” she cried, throwing up her hands. “If you don’t care about me then why did you come rushing over when I almost fell? I’m dreaming, I can’t die in dream-“

“You would wake up,” he snapped, his eyes suddenly boring into hers.

“What?” the breath rushed from her, winded. He slumped, defeated.

“If you leapt into that space, you would fall and wake suddenly, and the dream would end.”

“You want me to stay,” she murmured, her lips numb with shock. She had hoped, but she had never believed he might know it himself. “But you threw me out… you told me to go to my room!”

“Belle, please-“ he said, begging her, an attitude she wasn’t prepared for. He was so mercurial, so impossible to track and predict, his moods ricocheting from one extreme to another.

She told him as much, “No, one moment you’re full of hope for true love, and the next you’re shoving me out the door!” she cried. “Pick one! Do you want me gone, or do you want me to stay?”

She stared him down, but he refused to meet her eyes. “Belle, please.”

He sounded ruined, his shoulders slumped, his eyes on his bare feet. She didn’t know what to do with that. “Please what?” she demanded. “Please shut up? Please leave me alone? Please keep forcing the issue and reminding me that we love each other until I stop being such a pigheaded ass-“

Her tirade ended in a yelp as he hauled her to him by her shoulders, his lips meeting hers, swallowing whatever was going to come next. His mouth was as soft and warm as she remembered, and Belle’s eyes fluttered closed, a blissful noise leaving her as her hands cupped his cheeks. He was kissing her. Nothing could ever compare to his kisses. He touched her like she was something precious, like he loved her, his mouth caressing hers with such tenderness it stopped her breath.

He pulled back a moment later. She waited for the bloom of pink from his lips, his curse broken.

It was a dream, she remembered a moment later: his curse couldn’t break, even if he wanted it to. He was safe here.

His breath was ragged, wide eyes staring at her in shock, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. He was so beautiful, like this, his hair mussed from her hands and his soft lips wet from their kissing, that it took all Belle’s self control not to just kiss him again.

“Please stop making this so hard,” he said, swallowing down whatever was in his chest. He leaned forward, as if he couldn’t help himself, and rested his forehead against hers. She could feel his breath on her lips. “Please, Belle.”

She shook her head. “It’s not hard, Rumpelstiltskin,” she said. “It can be simple, if you just let it. If you just let me in.”

She was still so angry, so hurt, so afraid that he would turn around and hate her again at a moment’s notice, and she hated that her anger was so easily banished with a soft word and a kiss. He had her, heart and soul, and there was nothing she could do about it but let herself fall.

“I can’t,” he shook his head, and pulled back. Her heart shattered in her chest.

“You can’t be doing this again,” she shook her head, her shaking hand covering her mouth where his lips had been. “Not again, it’s not fair. You can’t do this to me twice. You can’t turn around and tell me you don’t love me, or I don’t love you, when you know it isn’t true.”

“I won’t,” he said, and the fight fled from her. He looked desperate, and miserable. “You’re right. It isn’t true.”

“Then what’s so hard?” she begged him for an answer, for whatever she was missing that made this all make sense. “Why did you throw me out if you knew it was real?”

“This is what I do, Belle,” he said, helplessly, spreading his hands. He had no trouble meeting her gaze now, his eyes full of wild, desperate, inward anger. “I break everything around me. I have destroyed everyone I ever cared about. I have to believe true love can overcome even me, because if I don’t then everything is for nothing.”

“ _What_ is for nothing?” she pressed.

“ _Everything_!” he cried, suddenly, as if something inside him had finally snapped, the dam broken, the truth rushing out. “Everything I’ve done, searching for him, all of it will be for nothing!”

He was breathing hard, gaping as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just said. She stared at him, trying to make sense of it. For a long, brutal moment, neither of them said a word.

“Searching… for your son?” she struggled to process the new information, piecing it together with what else she knew.

“I’ve spent three hundred years, searching for him. And now I’ve built a spell, to find him. But there are so many variables; one wrong move and it will go wrong. It’s dark magic, Belle.” His eyes were urgent, that simmering desperation flooded to the surface. “I lost him, I pushed him away, the same as I did to you. Except where he went… where he went, I couldn’t reach him.”

“You need your power to find him,” she whispered, everything suddenly making aching, terrible, perfect sense. He nodded.

“I can’t love anything else,” he told her, pleading her to believe him. “I can only love him. If I waver… if I lose sight of him, then he’s lost.”

“Oh, Rumple,” she shook her head, and pitched forward, hugging him close and burying her face in his throat. His shaking, hesitant arms came to hold her close, so tentative she felt her heart stop. She clung to him. “Rumple, it doesn’t work like that,” she said, her lips muffled against his skin. “You don’t have a limited supply of love; love only grows the more you feel it.”

He shook his head, but still held her against him, his hesitance turning to urgency as his arms tightened, until she could hardly breathe. She didn’t complain. She wanted to bury herself inside of him, to hold him so close they ceased to be two people, and he couldn’t force her away again.

When he took a step back, she held on. She looked up at him, at his conflicted face. At least she knew he wanted her now. At least she could see the war on his face for what it was.

“What is it, Rumple?” she asked. She reached up a hand to cup his cheek, and she felt her heart flutter when he leaned into it. The soft ends of his long hair brushed her fingertips.

“What I have to do…” he sighed. “You can’t stay.”

“Whatever it is, it can wait,” she insisted. “We’re dreaming. You’re allowed to dream.”

He shook his head. She caught his cheek with her palm, and made him look at her.

“Please, Rumple,” she breathed, not knowing really what she was pleading him for – to stay with her, rather than stepping through that door and waking himself up? To come and find her in that loud, dirty tavern and bring her home? To love her, as she loved him, with the honesty and the bravery she knew he was capable of, deep down in that buried heart of his?

He looked her, his eyes deeper and more earnest than she’d ever seen them. For a moment, she imagined she could see that deep coffee-brown she had glimpsed for a brief moment after their ill-fated first kiss, before he’d shaken off their true love… before he’d chosen his power over her.

 _No_ , she corrected herself, sharply: he’d chosen his lost son over her. That was far easier to stomach, for all she still couldn’t understand why it had to be a choice. Surely finding him would be easier with two. Surely she could only be an asset: perhaps learning to love her could soften him, make him better prepared to be a father once again to his lost boy.

She was about to say so: her lips parted, half a syllable rolling from her tongue, before she was caught, words turned to a gasp as his mouth covered hers. His hands grasped at her waist, his former hesitancy turned to desperation. His mouth plundered hers, his tongue slipping between her lips and catching her breathless. He groaned against her lips, and she felt it reverberate down her spine.

His mouth slid from hers when she needed to gasp a breath, but he did not relent. His lips pressed to her cheek, her earlobe, down her jaw with little nibbling kisses that made her tremble and quake.

It didn’t count if it wasn’t really happening, she thought. It didn’t matter that her legs coiled around his hips, or that she was suddenly very aware that her shift hid nothing, that all that lay between them was his silk shirt and waistcoat and the thin silk of her nightgown. It didn’t matter that she was shaking in his arms like a wanton, that her body ached for him as strongly as her heart.

It wasn’t really happening, so it didn’t count.

It didn’t count that her hands were scrabbling at his waistcoat, pulling the buttons free so she could slide her hands inside and feel his warm skin beneath his silk shirt. It didn’t matter that his heart was pounding beneath his ribs, matching hers beat-for-beat.

“You slept in your waistcoat?” she asked, a little frustrated, even as she groaned as he sucked at her pulse point.

He didn’t reply. She had the sudden thought that maybe taking off his laced boots was the only concession he was willing to make for his own comfort. Even in his dreams, Rumpelstiltskin refused to allow himself a moment’s peace.

His arms released her for just a moment as she slid the waistcoat from his shoulders. When he pressed back against her, hauling her close again as if he couldn’t bear to let go, she could feel the heat of his chest against hers, just two layers of thin fabric separating them.

For a moment his arms were wrapped around her back, one hand in her hair and the other under her ribs, and he just held her. Her heart caught and stuttered. She clutched back, hands fisted in his shirt.

“I love you,” she said. It wasn’t a challenge, or a plea, or an accusation. She needed to say it, and whatever he may say, he needed to hear it. One of them had to be honest and brave in their love, even if the other was too wrapped in fear and ancient, twisted grief to be able to say it back.

He groaned, soft and low in his throat. He buried his face in her throat. “Oh, Belle,” he sighed, her name on his breath. “My Belle.”

She choked back a sob, her whole body shivering. The way he said it, broken and longing and yet somehow relieved, was better than a declaration of love.

“Yes,” she whispered, because none of this was real so it didn’t count, “I’m yours. All yours.”

She wished it were true. She wished he belonged to her too.

His mouth pressed to her neck, words becoming kisses, and when he nipped at the sensitive skin at her neck and shoulder she let out an embarrassing little whimper. It felt so real, so much more intense and vivid than any dream she’d ever had before. She hoped she would remember it when she woke up. She hoped he would too.

One of his hands pushed her shift up her thigh, his fingers running over her skin, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. She shuddered all over.

In retaliation, she tugged his shirt loose from his tight leather breeches. She thought about pulling it off over his head, but before she had the chance he was kissing her mouth again, turning her knees to water with his clever lips and tongue. She dropped his shirt; her hands clutched at his hair instead.

She could feel her underclothes dampening. She had removed all but the essentials before bed, and so there would be little to hide her blushes if his questing hand ventured any higher. But it was a dream, she reminded herself: she couldn’t be judged for what her body did in a dream.

She bit her lip around a moan when he tugged her closer, and suddenly the hardened place between his legs was pressed against her core. For a glorious moment, there was pressure and friction against her swollen folds, and she saw a flash of stars.

He stepped back a moment later, disentangling them. Belle was breathing hard, her body tense and tingling with wanting him. His eyes were wild, his hair mussed from her clutching hands. With his shirt hanging out and his mouth swollen from her kisses, he looked dishevelled and beautiful in the moonlight. Oh, yes, Belle hoped she would remember this come morning.

And yet, through it all he looked uncertain. Far from a wild, feral beast, Belle was reminded more of a woodland creature, afraid of a hand attempting to feed it. He was watching her nervously, as if he didn’t know what to do next.

“It’s okay, Rumple,” she found her voice. She was a little wrecked herself from their activities, her words coming quick and breathless.

She reached out her hands for his, loving how well his fingers fit cupped around hers. She realised only then that she had never held his hands before.

“Belle…”

“I want you,” she told him, her words coming easier when she could blame them on blind passion. “It’s only a dream,” she said. “You can do what you want in a dream…”

She tugged him closer; he followed on helpless feet, until they were stood close again, her knees on either side of his thighs. “What do you want, Rumple?”

She knew she would be blushing, wavering, uncertain and keenly aware of her inexperience, were this reality. She had never done this in reality, and she certainly couldn’t have mustered the confidence and certainty she felt now. But reality was a world away: in dreams, one could be anything one wished to be.

This was familiar territory, at least. Belle was a grown woman, and she had shared a castle with the ridiculous, beautiful, frustrating-as-all-hell sorcerer she loved for months, never being able to steal more than a brush of her hand on his shoulder every now and again. More nights than not she had fallen asleep with her hand still damp between her legs, his name still on her lips.

She had all the experience in the world of _dreaming_ about making love with him. And that was all this was, after all: dreaming.

“Please, Rumple,” she said again. This time, she knew _exactly_ what she was asking for.

He moaned, a lost, helpless sound she saved away for memory. He leaned toward her, all but fell onto her, as if gravity drew him toward her and he couldn’t help but fall. Belle opened her mouth for him, following his earlier example and tangling her tongue with his.

Her hands shook with urgency as she attempted to untie the stays of his breaches. She wriggled on the desk, trying to hutch her shift up higher.

Eventually, his hands came to join hers on his breeches, and he had the laces untied in a moment. She wondered for a moment if he’d forgotten his magic, for he only used his hands. Maybe in his dreams he had no magic at all. Her speculation was halted a moment later when he pulled her closer again, hips flush to hers, and suddenly there was nothing between them at all.

He groaned softly, and she felt his breath against her hair. His eyes were so wide; they swallowed her whole.

Belle swallowed hard. This was a terrible idea, but it was only a dream. Who knew if he would want her like this, if she turned on her heel the following morning and marched back to the castle, refusing to let him turn her away again? Who knew if he would ever let his guard down this way in real life?

He would bolt even now, she thought, if she gave him a moment to doubt himself.

She wrapped her thighs around his hips, taking the lead despite her inexperience. His hand was trapped between them as he took hold of his cock, nestled between her legs. His eyes met hers, questioning, still so very doubtful, so frightened. How terrible it must be, she thought, to live every day with that crushing fear. He shouldn’t be afraid, not here, not with her.

She moved as close to him as she could be, until the tip of him was pressed against her. She kissed him, and he swallowed her moan as he breached her, his hand guiding his cock finally, at last, inside of her.

The world went hazy, the dream-world around them blurring until Belle had to close her eyes, burying her face in his throat as he buried himself inside her. It felt wonderful to finally be joined with him, so much thicker and fuller than her fingers had ever managed, and yet…

And yet it wasn’t enough.

The pleasure was real enough, and as he began to move Belle gasped at the sensation, the waves building up and up. She clung to him, clenched around him, but there was still something missing. When they had first kissed, the power of it had been enough to break the darkest of all curses. Belle knew then that if they were together in the real world, skin-to-skin, it would be mind-blowing.

“Rumple,” she gasped, wanting to tell him, to ask him to wake them up and transport himself to her or her to him, “Rumple-“

He kissed her, muffling her words. A moment later, his hand had moved back between them, and his fingers were everywhere, rubbing and teasing at the bud above where they were joined, until Belle’s legs trembled and her eyes squeezed shut, the pleasure coiling and building in her core until she was whimpering against his lips.

She broke suddenly, with a gasp, the waves lapping over her, sparks bursting behind her eyes as the pleasure burst inside her. Belle’s toes curled at the small of his back as he worked her through her climax, her open mouth still pressed to his.

She felt him follow her, his even thrusts becoming erratic as he groaned against her mouth and spilled himself inside her. If she listened closely, she could swear he was sighing her name.

The floor dropped out of the world, and she clung to him, the pleasure receding as they began to fall down, down-

“Rumple!”

Belle jumped awake, his name still on her lips. Her arms reached out instinctively, but found only air.

She flopped back on the bed with a heavy sigh. Her lips were still tingling from his kisses, her folds damp and swollen from her climax. A moment ago she had been full of her love, surrounded by him, and now she was alone, the sweat cooling on her overheated skin.

In the dream, it had felt so natural to accept only a dream. She had somehow accepted his protestations that finding his son somehow meant sacrificing their love, and accepted that one night of almost-bliss in lieu of a lifetime together.

Her passion quickly turned to frustration, with herself and with him. They loved each other: that much was clear, and moreover they wanted each other. In the end a dream was no substitute for reality, in either respect.

Belle hauled herself from her bed. It was the middle of the night, but it hardly mattered: the Dark Castle was a few days’ ride from the tavern, and if she got a head start and Philippe was willing to ride fast through the night, she could make it in half that time.

They both deserved better than the half-life of a shared dream. They deserved better than love half-made, and words half-heard, and time together half-remembered. There was a reason that in order to matter, a dream had to eventually come true.

Rumpelstiltskin might be satisfied with just a dream, but Belle most certainly was not.


	3. Chapter 3

“Belle!” Rumpelstiltskin awoke with a start. He sat upright in his chair, his eyes flying open. His arms were empty; he was alone in his workshop.

He sighed, slumping back in the chair, his hand covering his eyes. It had worked, then. The fairy dust responded to his touch… and had, apparently, an appalling sense of humour.

Why had it made him dream of her? Did his own mind hate him that much, to make it seem so real?

He looked down at the mess he had made of himself. His breaches clung to his half-hard member, and he could feel the wetness inside where he had disgraced himself. He had brought himself to climax with only the thought of her. Fairies claimed their magic was for good, but it seemed incredibly cruel to have dangled such a beautiful image in front of him, only for it to be snatched away upon waking.

Magic rarely did as it was told. Dark magic enjoyed granting the caster’s request, but exacting a hefty and often ironic price. Fairy magic, it seemed, worked similarly, exploiting the loopholes in any given spell. When asked to show him the person he loved, his son, it had instead sent him dreams of Belle.

He thought back to the fairy in the jar, convinced his dark, unloving, twisted heart couldn’t make the magic work. He thought of his mother, her harsh face twisted, dressed and cawing like a carrion crow. She had lost her child, and yet their reunion had only brought a sneer to her lips.

Now, her magic had brought him an echo of that pain. Whenever he reached for love, his fingers passed right through it.

For it was clear that Belle couldn’t actually have been there. Dreams always felt so real when one was in them, but it was absurd to think that fairy dust could compel two virtual strangers to dream the same dream. It had not drawn them together, as she had insisted, by any mystical bond of true love. It had simply preyed on his loneliness, his pathetic longing for her, to teach him a lesson about meddling where his cursed fingers didn’t belong.

She was gone, forever: he’d made sure of that. In no reality, this or any other, would she let him hold her and kiss her, much less make love to her. He’d lost that chance when he threw her out. No doubt she would awaken to silk sheets in her father’s castle, or perhaps wrapped in the arms of a new lover, someone strong and young and handsome like her former fiancé.

Rumpelstiltskin swallowed hard. A negligent wave of his hand had his breaches clean and fresh, removing any evidence of his indiscretion. She was better off without him; it was better that even he forget that strange, vivid dream.

It wasn’t as if this was the first embarrassing wet dream he had had starring her. He had forgotten those quickly, and he would forget this too. He would forget the soft, yearning moans in his ear, and the scent of her soft skin, and the sensation of her clenching around his cock, so wet and hot, her mouth slack with pleasure. He would forget how his name sounded gasped on her lips, and how it felt to hear her say she loved him.

She was a beautiful distraction, a complication he could ill afford. He would forget her, as he should have in the first place.

And yet, he couldn’t. He tried to sleep it off, but tossed and turned all night, eventually succumbing in the early hours of the morning to fitful dozing. In his dreams she was miles or minutes away, calling for him, scolding him for abandoning her. He reached for her, but no matter how close she seemed or how far he stretched, his fingers passed through empty air.

He awoke in a cold sweat, hung up on strange details. In his dreams there was old straw in Belle’s hair, and the scent of horses and stale beer hung around her.

The dawn breaking saw him pacing his workshop. The half-depleted bowl of fairy dust winked and glittered on the counter top, mocking him. Rumpelstiltskin was half minded to make a forgetting potion for himself: to forget the dust, and the dream, and perhaps Belle herself.

He balked at the idea as soon as he thought of it. All he would ever have of Belle was the memory of her, and the thought of losing that too was unbearable.

All he could think about was that dream: how she had fought him, kissed him, loved him, as though she had really been there, standing in front of him. The Belle in his dreams was never so argumentative as the real thing. She was always welcoming, smiling, and usually just out of reach. She never scolded him – however much he had always enjoyed being scolded by her.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the dust was as powerful as he had imagined, and everything was real, even the straw and the scent of horses. Maybe she would come home to him, if only he would let her.

Maybe she would even understand, if he explained about the curse.

The temptation to check was too strong. He could just take a peek: if she was happy, and oblivious, then at least he would know the previous night for the pathetic fantasy it was.

He waved a hand over the crystal ball. “Show me Belle.”

Rumpelstiltskin was not readily surprised.

Belle was not asleep. Belle was, in fact, riding rather determinedly down a dirt road through the forest. She was also, it seemed, talking to her horse.

Another plume of smoke had him listening in. When it came to her, it seemed Rumpelstiltskin had no self-control whatsoever.

“I don’t care if it wasn’t real,” she was saying. “Philippe, I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’m certain of it!”

The horse harrumphed. Rumpelstiltskin tried, how he tried, not to be charmed by her all over again. He failed. She was a delight, light and beauty itself, and the more he saw of her the more he wanted to see. It had been ever thus: a taste of Belle only ever made him desperate for more.

“I know, I know, it’s all in my head,” she was saying. “But I felt him, Phillipe! And it’s not impossible, you know, he used to watch me in the castle.”

A thought had him by the roadside, skirting through the treeline on quick feet, keeping pace with the horse as she ranted.

“The magic exists, I’ve read about it. It would require fairy dust, of course, to manipulate dreams, but it’s quite possible for two people to exist in the same dream…”

Rumpelstiltskin swallowed, hard. So it had been real. The magic had worked, and it had not mocked him, but brought him the closest thing to happiness he had felt since true love’s kiss had threatened everything he had worked so hard to achieve. And if she was right about that, it was possible she was right about the rest, too. It was even possible that, light magic being what it was, true love had played a role.

Belle pulled up the reigns, and sighed, her shoulders heaving. For the first time, he noticed she was wearing not her usual blue dress or the shift from their apparently mutual dreaming, but leathers: breeches and boots not unlike his own. She looked like an adventurer, like the hero she was, and he caught himself staring at her while she took a drink from her wineskin. She was beautiful, and a little wild, the soft glow from within her soul burnished and beaming out. He wondered how the snow did not melt in her presence.

“But then I woke up alone,” she said, and her sigh caught at his heart. She crumpled, and sounded so lost, so sad, that for a moment it was hard not to go to her. “But it’s alright,” she continued, rallying. “That’s just how he is.”

She stroked her hands through her horse’s mane, and leaned down to press a kiss between his ears. Then, she tugged at the reigns, pressed her boots into his sides, and continued on, leaving Rumpelstiltskin alone in the forest, watching her ride away.

A moment passed in silence. 

He knew what he should do. His plan was meticulous, and she had the power to throw it all into chaos. Of every element at play – the Queen, Snow White and her Prince Charming, their future child and her future child – Belle was the only one who could ruin everything.

Love was always a choice. And between Belle and his son, Baelfire would win every time.

Unbidden, her words from their dream came back to him, clear as day: " _You don’t have a limited supply of love; love only grows the more you feel it."_

Maybe the choice wasn’t between one love and another, but between warmth and cold; between love and the lack thereof. Maybe one love would feed the other, rather than starving it out.

Rumpelstiltskin closed his eyes, and the world shifted around him. He heard hooves coming toward him, rounding the corner, and then…

“Rumpelstiltskin!”


End file.
